THE    SCAR 
THAT    TRIPLED 


William  G.  Shepherd 


THE  SCAR  THAT  TRIPLED 


am.  «  CAMF.  tlBEAIK.  MS 


THE   SCAR 
THAT   TRIPLED 

A  True  Story  of 
The   Great  War 

BY 
WILLIAM  G.  SHEPHERD 


HARPER  fcf  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 


BOOKS  BY 
WILLIAM   G.  SHEPHERD 


CONFESSIONS  OF  A   WAR  CORRESPONDENT 
THE   SCAR  THAT   TRIPLED 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
[ESTABLISHED  1817] 


THE  SCAR  THAT  TRIPLED 


Copyright,  1917,  1918,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  January.  1918 

A-8 


THE  SCAR  THAT  TRIPLED 


2132813 


THE  SCAR  THAT  TRIPLED 

HE  is  over  at  the  front  in  France 
now,  if  he  is  still  alive,  with 
three  scars  across  his  stomach  instead 
of  the  one  that  Richard  Harding 
Davis  knew.  When  Davis  wrote  his 
story  about  this  youth  with  the  scar 
— his  last  story,  called  "The  De- 
serter," which  appeared  in  the  Sep- 
tember number  of  the  Metropolitan 
Magazine — we  were  all  in  so  much 
doubt  whether  the  one  scar  was  hon- 
orable or  not  that  Davis  did  not  even 
mention  the  scar  in  what  he  wrote. 
But  Davis,  if  he  were  alive  to-day 
and  knew  the  sequel  to  "The  De- 
serter," might  well  write  a  new  story 

[3] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

of  it  all  and  call  it,  perhaps,  "The 
Scar  that  Tripled." 

The  youth  came  to  Salonica  on  a 
British  troop-ship,  a  sergeant  in  the 
British  army,  though  an  American  to 
the  core.  He  went  to  the  muddy  out- 
skirts of  Salonica  to  live  in  a  tent. 

John  McCutcheon,  James  H.  Hare, 
and  I  reached  Salonica  on  an  Italian 
passenger-steamer  and,  after  a  long 
search  for  rooms  in  which  to  live  and 
work,  we  rented  one  huge  chamber  in 
the  Olympus  Palace  Hotel,  which  had 
once  been  used  as  the  quarters  of  the 
Austrian  club  of  Salonica,  and  settled 
down  to  our  jobs  of  getting  war  news. 
The  hotel  stood  on  the  water-front, 
and  we  arranged  our  three  work- 
tables  at  the  front  windows  so  that  all 
the  myriad  activities  of  the  allied 
troops  were  stretched  out  before  our 
view.  Curtains  of  vast  dimensions 

[4] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

bisected  the  room,  and  we  slept  and 
dressed  in  the  rear  part.  Heavy  rugs, 
big  chairs,  two  steam-radiators,  a  per- 
petual bottle  of  seltzer  and  several 
frequently  replenished  bottles  of  vari- 
ous liquors,  together  with  a  push- 
button that  might  be  used  to  summon 
steaming  hot  tea  or  coffee  at  any  hour 
of  the  day,  gave  our  quarters  a  sem- 
blance of  luxury.  True  enough,  we 
were  not  "at  home"  for  weeks  at  a 
time,  because  our  trips  to  the  front 
were  frequent,  and  "roughing  it"  fell 
to  our  lot  at  least  three-quarters  of 
the  time;  but  always,  at  the  end  of 
our  trips,  there  was  Room  14,  as  we 
called  it,  with  its  warmth  and  clean- 
liness and  comfort. 

It  must  have  looked  like  a  glimpse 
of  heaven  to  the  boy  with  the  scar. 
To  find  us  at  all  was  something  of  a 
task  for  him.  Salonica  was  the  cen- 

[5] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

ter  of  a  whirlpool  of  racial  bloods  in 
November  of  1915,  when  the  Allies 
seized  upon  it  as  a  military  base. 
Tides  of  humanity  were  flowing  to  it 
from  every  corner  of  the  earth.  Mys- 
terious Germans,  whose  civilian  garb 
rested  uneasily  on  military  shoulders, 
came  from  the  direction  of  Constanti- 
nople to  mingle  in  the  streets  and  cafes 
with  officers  of  the  invading  armies. 
From  the  northwest  came  a  tide  of 
fugitive  Serbians,  swept  out  of  their 
country  by  the  great  brush  of  the 
German-Austrian-Bulgarian  drive;  a 
dirty  tide,  bearing  the  grime  and  nas- 
tiness  which  it  had  picked  up  in  its 
course  through  the  Balkan  mountains. 
From  the  southwest  came  the  great 
ships  whose  bottoms  had  sneaked 
through  the  underwater  world  past 
the  waiting  submarines,  with  their 
loads  of  blue  French  zouaves  from 

161 


THE   SCAR   THAT    TRIPLED 

Africa  and  khaki  British^troopers  who 
had  passed  through  the  hell  of  the 
Dardanelles.  From  every  direction 
there  poured  into  the  city  families  of 
nondescript  blood,  fleeing  from  their 
farms  in  Macedonia:  mongrels  of 
the  Levant,  babies,  girls,  boys,  men, 
women,  whose  very  mixture  of  blood 
was  a  token  of  other  times  in  other 
centuries  when  men  of  various  nations 
had  dashed  to  this  same  old  battle- 
field of  Macedonia  to  debauch  them- 
selves in  war.  The  tide  grew  in  force 
and  volume.  Hindoo  soldiers  ap- 
peared, and  black  French  Africans; 
queer  Cochin  -  China  troops,  with 
peaked  wide  hats;  and  Russian  sol- 
diers from  a  great  seven-stacked  Rus- 
sian battle-cruiser.  The  city  itself 
possessed  the  dignity  of  a  rock  about 
which  a  whirlpool  surges;  with  the 
benignity  of  the  ages  upon  it,  accus- 

[7] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

tomed  through  the  centuries  to  the 
massacres  of  pagans  and  the  reddest 
cruelties  of  the  reddest  Roman  em- 
perors, it  lay  placid  and  unastonished 
in  the  ^Egean  sunshine,  resting  in  its 
own  dirt  like  a  Brahmin  yogi  whose 
philosophy  has  raised  him  above  the 
filth  and  clamor  that  surround  him  in 
the  market-place.  Mount  Olympus, 
across  the  bay,  where  the  gods  used  to 
play  until  human  doubts  routed  them 
to  some  spot  we  have  not  yet  discov- 
ered, looked  down  on  the  welter  with 
an  equal  indifference.  And  in  the 
midst  of  this  storm  of  humanity  the 
youth  with  the  scar  found  us  in  Room 
14. 

To  us,  on  his  first  visit,  he  was  only 
an  American  boy  in  the  British  army; 
not  a  rare  bird,  by  any  means,  con- 
sidering that  there  are  some  twelve 
thousand  of  them.  He  was  only  one 

[8] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

of  the  little  side  eddies  that  used  to 
sweep  into  our  chamber.  British  war 
correspondents  came  to  play  poker 
and  talk  news;  British  officers  "poked 
in"  for  tea  or  a  whisky  and  soda, 
happy  to  get  into  an  atmosphere  of 
peace  and  away  from  the  monotony  of 
camp;  French  officers  who  could  talk 
English  dropped  in  to  practise  Eng- 
lish on  us ;  Americans  in  trouble  found 
their  way  there,  and  strange  males  of 
the  uncertain  breeds  of  the  Levant, 
but  Americans  through  naturaliza- 
tion, came  to  us  for  help,  and  chatted, 
in  weird  English,  of  New  York,  Chi- 
cago, or  other  American  cities  in 
which  they  had  lived.  I  will  not  say 
that  all  these  visits  were  due  to  our 
popularity.  Charlie,  the  porter,  who 
guarded  the  portals  of  the  hotel,  took 
it  upon  himself,  shortly  after  our 
arrival,  to  sift  from  the  crowd  at  the 

[9] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

door  all  mortals  of  whatever  sex,  race, 
class,  or  color  who  might,  in  his 
opinion,  interest  us,  and  sent  them  to 
our  room.  "A  man  to  see  you,  mis- 
ters," he  would  announce  at  our  door, 
and  the  new-comer,  often  unwillingly 
and  sometimes  feeling  himself  be- 
trayed, would  enter  our  room.  More 
often  than  not  the  mortal  in  question 
had  not  asked  to  see  us  and  did  not 
even  know  us,  and,  for  our  part,  we 
rarely  knew  what  Charlie  had  found 
interesting  in  the  strangers  whom  he 
turned  into  our  presence.  He  would 
merely  turn  them  in,  as  a  farmer 
turns  a  cow  into  a  pasture  without  in- 
troducing it  to  the  other  live  stock, 
and  depart,  leaving  us  to  become 
acquainted  as  best  we  might.  One 
time  it  was  an  English  lord — though 
we  didn't  know  it  was  a  lord — that 
Charlie  herded  into  our  chamber.  He 

[10] 


THE    SCAR    THAT    TRIPLED 

had  led  a  score  of  English  nurses 
through  the  Serbian  rout,  and  only  an 
hour  before  he  had  reached  Salonica, 
after  twenty  days  of  utter  hardship 
and  danger.  He  almost  went  to  sleep 
as  he  drank  our  tea  and  as  we  dragged 
from  him  a  story  01  his  experiences 
that  was  shortly  speeding  under  the 
seas  by  cable  to  New  York. 

In  a  way,  it  was  Charlie,  a  huge 
Levantine,  who  was  responsible  for 
Da  vis's  story  of  "The  Deserter,"  for 
he  brought  Davis  and  the  boy  with 
the  scar  together  in  our  room.  True 
enough,  the  boy  had  seen  an  item  in 
a  little  French  military  newspaper 
that  we  were  in  Salonica  and  had  set 
out  to  seek  us.  But  Charlie  had 
steered — or  shall  I  say  dragged? — 
Davis  to  us.  At  dusk,  one  evening, 
a  huge  American  stepped  off  a  Greek 
boat  on  the  water-front  and  made  his 
Hi] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

way  to  the  Olympus  Palace  Hotel. 
Charlie  got  him  in  his  clutches. 

"We  haven't  any  room  for  you," 
said  Charlie,  "but  some  of  your  coun- 
trymen are  in  a  room  up-stairs.  May- 
be you'd  like  to  see  them." 

"I  don't  want  to  visit  with  any 
fellow-countrymen  just  now,"  grunted 
the  American.  "I  want  a  room." 

"But  these  Americans  are  war  cor- 
respondents." 

"I  don't  want  to  see  any  war  cor- 
respondents. What  I  want  is  a  room." 

"They've  got  a  big  room.  Maybe 
they'll  let  you  sleep  with  them  until 
you  find  a  place." 

Patient  Charlie!  Whatever  came  to 
his  net  remained  in  it,  big  men  or 
small,  weak  men  or  strong. 

"Who  are  these  fellows?"  the  big 
man  asked,  weakening. 

"Don't  know  their  names,"   lied 

[12] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

Charlie,  "but  you'd  better  come  up 
and  see  them.  Maybe  you  can  get  a 
place  to  sleep." 

Grudgingly  the  big  man  climbed  the 
stairs,  following  Charlie.  The  big  man 
had  always  disliked  following  any- 
body; had  always  disliked  having 
anybody  follow  him.  "He  travels 
quickest  who  travels  alone,"  had  been 
his  motto  through  a  successful  life. 
But  even  life  mottoes  must  go  hang 
when  they  stand  in  the  way  of  a  bed 
and  a  roof. 

"A  man  to  see  you,  misters,"  we 
heard  Charlie  say,  and  in  the  doorway 
we  saw  Davis  batting  his  eyes  at  the 
brightness  of  the  room.  With  a  roar 
of  pleasure  he  dashed  in,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation. 

"You  sons  o'  guns!  You  sons  o' 
guns!"  he  shouted,  in  school-boy  fash- 
ion. "I  didn't  know  you  fellows  were 

[13] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

in  this  corner  of  the  earth.  I  thought 
you  were  all  down  in  Mexico  or  France 
or  Russia." 

We  talked  far  into  the  night  about 
Mexico  and  Vera  Cruz,  where  we  had 
last  met.  At  bedtime  Davis  stretched 
himself  on  a  bed,  improvised  with  a 
couch  and  a  chair,  wrapped  blankets 
about  his  huge  person,  gave  a  grunt 
of  physical  satisfaction,  and  we  heard 
nothing  more  from  him  until  the  next 
morning,  when  he  aroused  us  with  the 
whale-like  blowings  and  snortings  that 
invariably  accompanied  his  cold  morn- 
ing sponge-bath. 

Thus  Davis,  for  a  time,  was  a  fellow- 
occupant  of  Room  14,  and  when  the 
boy  with  the  scar  entered  our  lives 
he  entered  Davis's  also. 

"A  man  to  see  you,  misters";  it 
was  in  the  accustomed  way  that  Char- 
lie introduced  the  boy  with  the  scar. 

[14] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

There  was  a  clatter  of  heavy-soled 
army  shoes  at  the  door  as  a  soldier, 
stepping  past  Charlie,  entered  the 
room  with  something  of  haste  in  his 
movement.  His  uniform  was  British, 
his  stripes  those  of  a  sergeant,  but  his 
boyish,  smiling  face,  in  spite  of  its 
jaunty  little  British  mustache,  was 
American. 

"I  heard  you  fellows  were  here,  and 
I  couldn't  stay  away,"  he  said,  ad- 
vancing with  an  attractive  smile  and 
an  outstretched  hand  to  McCutcheon. 
McCutcheon  looks  like  Abraham  Lin- 
coln, and  people  seem  to  like  to  shake 
hands  with  him.  "You'll  have  to  for- 
give me  for  horning  in  on  you  this 
way,  but  ever  since  I  read  in  the  little 
French  paper  that  you  fellows  were 
here,  I've  been  trying  to  find  you. 
I  simply  had  to  come  and  talk  Amer- 
ican for  a  while." 

[15] 


THE   SCAR   THAT    TRIPLED 

He  was  in  tke  twenties,  and  Middle 
Western.  His  speech  was  American 
college,  and  he  laughed  with  his  heart 
as  well  as  his  eyes.  We  got  him  seated 
and  welcomed  him.  Would  he  have  a 
drink?  Or  a  cigar? 

"I  don't  drink,"  he  said.  "Never 
did.  But  for  a  cigar  I'd  lay  me  down 
and  dee." 

With  the  cigar  came  talk. 

"God!"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  good  to 
be  with  Americans.  I  like  the  British, 
but  they're  not  home  folks,  after  all. 
I've  been  with  the  British  ever  since 
the  retreat  from  Mons.  I  joined  at 
the  very  first  as  a  private  and  I've 
worked  my  way  up  to  sergeant.  I 
served  on  the  French  and  Belgian 
fronts,  and  now  they've  got  us  here  in 
Serbia.  This  is  killing  us,  Salonica. 
Our  tents  are  put  up  in  the  mud  about 
six  miles  out  from  here.  We  haven't 

[16] 


THE   SCAR    THAT    TRIPLED 

got  any  work  to  do  now  and  so  we're 
only  waiting  for  something  to  turn 
up." 

"Waiting  is  the  toughest  part  of  a 
soldier's  life,  isn't  it?"  suggested  Davis. 

"Well,  fighting  is  bad  enough.  Aw! 
It's  terrible!  Do  you  know,  I've  seen 
everything  done  to  human  flesh  that 
can  be  done  to  it.  I've  seen  men 
whose  nerves  were  cut  apart  and  who 
suffered  so  much  that  opiates  wouldn't 
put  them  to  sleep.  I'm  tired  of  being 
nothing.  That's  what  a  man  is  in  war 
— he's  nothing.  He  mustn't  ask  ques- 
tions; he  mustn't  think;  he  must 
obey  orders.  He  must  suffer  by  order 
and  die  by  order,  and  not  even  know 
why  the  orders  were  given.  You're 
nothing.  It  doesn't  make  any  differ- 
ence whether  you're  sick  or  cold  or 
hungry.  Nobody  cares  but  yourself, 
and  you've  really  no  right  to  care." 

[17] 


THE   SCAR   THAT    TRIPLED 

There  was  no  chance  for  us  to  talk; 
he  was  too  full  of  his  subject. 

"Why,  it's  so  cold  out  in  our  tent," 
he  continued,  getting  away  from  gen- 
eralities to  his  latest  concrete  woe, 
"that  we  have  to  sleep  under  six 
blankets,  and  when  we  get  up  in  the 
morning  we're  so  tired  from  having 
eighteen  pounds  of  blankets  weighing 
down  on  us  in  the  night,  that  we  have 
to  go  back  to  bed  again  to  get  a  rest. 
It's  a  terrible  life  and  I'm  fed  up  with 
it.  I'm  going  to  quit  as  soon  as  I  can. 
To-day's  leave  of  absence  from  camp 
is  the  first  I've  had  in  six  weeks,  and 
I'm  so  homesick  for  the  United  States 
that  I  can  hardly  wait  until  I  get 
there." 

"You've  seen  a  lot  of  real  fighting, 
then?"  I  asked. 

"I've  been  right  in  the  ruck  in 'the 
heaviest  trench  fighting  in  France  and 

[18] 


THE   SCAR    THAT    TRIPLED 

Belgium,"  he  said.  "  Good  Lord,  I've 
seen  so  many  terrible  things  that  I 
don't  know  whether  I  can  ever  be- 
come a  quiet,  decent  American  citizen 
again.  You  know,  sometimes  I  get  to 
thinking  that  if  people  knew  how 
many  horrors  I've  been  mixed  up  in 
they  would  see  something  horrible  in 
me  and  wouldn't  want  to  have  me 
around  or  talk  to  me.  But  I  can't 
stand  this  Salonica  cold  and  mud. 
I'm  going  to  quit  as  soon  as  I  can." 

We  couldn't  pin  him  down  to  defi- 
nite details  about  fighting  and  action 
at  the  front.  Perhaps  it  was  for  this 
reason  that  we  were  all  a  little  in- 
clined to  doubt  some  of  the  things  he 
said.  But  at  least  we  knew  he  was 
American  and  that  he  was  leading  a 
miserable  life  in  the  cold  and  mud  of 
Macedonia,  and  that  he  did  not  owe 
anything  especially  to  the  British 

[101 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

army,  and  that  he  was  homesick.  So, 
I  confess,  we  agreed  with  him  that  it 
might  be  a  sensible  thing  to  quit  while 
he  was  still  alive,  and  go  back  home 
while  the  going  was  good. 

"If  I  come  here  again,  on  my  next 
leave  of  absence,  will  you  fellows  lend 
me  some  clothes?"  he  suddenly  asked. 
"I'll  have  to  go  to  the  American  con- 
sul here  to  get  him  to  certify  that  I 
am  an  American  citizen.  I  won't  dare 
to  go  to  the  consulate  in  a  British 
uniform,  you  know." 

I  remember  that  Davis  laughingly 
said,  as  he  looked  down  at  his  own 
huge  frame  and  then  at  the  slight 
figure  of  the  youth,  "You  can  just  as 
well  dare  go  in  a  British  uniform  as  in 
any  clothes  I've  got." 

But  we  had  the  clothes.  McCutch- 
eon  could  fit  him  out  with  shoes  and 
a  cap.  I  had  an  extra  suit  of  clothes. 

[20] 


THE   SCAR   THAT    TRIPLED 

Jimmy  Hare  had  socks  he  could  spare. 
We  could  fix  him  up  with  a  very 
proper  outfit  in  which  to  call  on  the 
consul. 

"Righto!"  he  said.  "On  my  next 
leave  of  absence  I'll  come  to  you  fel- 
lows and  start  the  ball  rolling." 

Then  he  said  good  night  and  started 
on  a  six-mile  hike  through  the  mud 
to  his  cold  tent. 

"A  man  to  see  you,  misters,"  an- 
nounced Charlie,  early  the  next  morn- 
ing. Davis,  McCutcheon,  Hare,  and 
I  were  seated  at  breakfast  around  a 
square  parlor  table  at  the  foot  of  our 
disordered  beds. 

The  American  youth  stamped  into 
our  presence. 

"Didn't  expect  to  see  me  so  soon?" 
he  asked,  cheerfully.  "Well,  here  I 
am,  to  borrow  those  clothes.  Don't 
let  me  take  you  from  breakfast.  I'll 

[21] 


THE   SCAR    THAT   TRIPLED 

just  shave  in  this  wash-basin,  if  you 
don't  mind?" 

"Sure!  Sure!"  exclaimed  McCutch- 
eon.  "Want  a  razor?" 

"No,  thanks.  I've  got  mine  with 
me.  Soldiers  always  carry  their  ra- 
zors, you  know." 

While  we  ate  breakfast  the  youth 
puttered  around  the  washstand.  We 
did  not  know  what  a  big  moment  had 
come  to  him.  As  he  tore  off  his  mus- 
tache with  a  dull  razor,  groaning  play- 
fully meanwhile,  we  did  not  know  that 
by  the  act  he  was  breaking  a  military 
rule  and  committing  a  military  offense 
that  would  take  him  to  the  guard- 
house for  at  least  ten  days. 

"Now  for  the  clothes,"  he  said,  as 
we  arose  from  the  table. 

We  got  them  out  of  our  trunks  and 
suit-cases  for  him,  and  when  he  had 
put  them  all  in  a  pile  on  the  couch 

[221 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

which  Davis  used  as  a  bed,  making 
sure  that  every  needful  article  was  at 
hand,  he  tore  off  his  mud-soaked, 
wrinkled  khaki  and  threw  it  into  a 
heap  on  the  floor. 

"Gee!  How  good  it  is  to  get  that 
off  and  know  that  I've  got  something 
else  to  put  on!  Just  think  of  having 
only  one  suit  of  clothes  in  the  world 
and  then  having  it  dirty  and  wrin- 
kled like  that  one!  Why,  I've  worn 
that  suit  for  over  a  year  now!  Bet 
none  of  you  fellows  ever  wore  the  same 
suit  every  day  for  a  year,  Sundays  and 
all.  You  don't  know  how  sick  a  man 
can  get  of  a  suit  of  clothes." 

"I  should  think  that  shell-fire  and 
wounds  and  dead  and  dying  men 
would  be  the  chief  things  for  a  soldier 
to  worry  about,"  I  said.  "Wearing  the 
same  suit  for  a  year  doesn't  seem  so 
bad." 

[23] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

"You  try  it  once,"  said  the  youth. 

"Well,  I've  tried  shell-fire,  and 
that's  pretty  bad,"  said  Hare. 

"Wearing  the  same  dirty  suit  for  a 
solid  year  is  worse." 

The  four  of  us  were  called  from  the 
hotel  that  morning,  on  various  tasks, 
but  we  told  the  youth  to  make  himself 
at  home  in  our  chamber. 

When  we  returned  at  one  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  he  was  sitting  in  a  big 
chair  reading  a  newspaper  and  smok- 
ing, clad  in  our  assortment  of  clothes. 

I  think  that  I  was  the  first  to  sense 
what  was  in  the  youth's  mind,  because 
he  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  hide  his  uni- 
form in  some  closet  about  the  hotel, 
and,  after  three  or  four  days,  send  it 
by  a  peasant  courier  back  to  his  camp. 

"Isn't  everything  all  right?"  I 
asked.  "Didn't  the  consul  give  you 
an  American  passport?" 

[24] 


THE   SCAR   THAT    TRIPLED 

"No,  he  didn't.  He  said  I  would 
have  to  go  to  Athens  for  one.  There's 
a  boat  sailing  for  Athens  this  after- 
noon, and  I'm  going  on  it." 

"Going  this  afternoon?"  asked  Mc- 
Cutcheon,  who  had  overheard  the 
remark. 

"Yes,  I  am.  I  can't  stand  this  any 
longer.  That  boat  tied  to  the  pier 
there" — it  was  not  more  than  two 
hundred  feet  from  the  doorway  of  our 
hotel — "sails  at  four  o'clock  this  after- 
noon. The  minute  I  get  on  that  boat 
I  will  be  safe.  Within  twenty-four 
hours  I'll  be  in  Athens,  which  is  neu- 
tral territory,  and  I  can  get  a  passport 
in  Athens  and  catch  a  boat  there  di- 
rectly for  the  United  States.  That's 
what  I'm  going  to  do."  He  spoke 
defiantly. 

"Me  for  lunch,"  said  Davis.  By 
his  remark  he  broke  the  spell  of  a  deep 

[25] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

and  unpleasant  study  into  which  we 
had  all  fallen. 

The  three  of  us  decided  to  accom- 
pany Davis. 

"Make  yourself  at  home,"  said 
McCutcheon  to  the  youth,  reassur- 
ingly, as  we  left  the  room. 

At  lunch  we  decided  that  the  youth 
was  intending  to  desert.  It  was  Davis 
who  brought  that  ugly  word,  "de- 
sert," into  the  conversation. 

"It's  none  of  our  business,  I  sup- 
pose," said  Davis.  "He's  his  own 
boss."  Then  we  talked  of  other  things. 

And  we  tried  to  dismiss  the  subject 
from  our  minds,  as  we  had  dismissed 
it  from  our  conversation.  But  in  my 
mind  it  would  not  down,  and  in  the 
minds  of  McCutcheon,  Davis,  and 
Hare  it  did  not  down.  The  picture  of 
that  youth,  sitting  in  our  room,  home- 
sick and  in  trouble — in  how  much 

[26] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

trouble  we  did  not  really  know — was 
before  us  all,  and  our  lunch,  usually 
the  cheeriest  event  of  the  day,  aside 
from  dinner,  proved  a  dismal  matter. 

We  went  back  to  the  room  after  an 
hour.  There  sat  the  boy,  facing  us  like 
a  duty,  like  an  unsolved  problem,  like 
a  task  that  we  had  tried  to  avoid  but 
that  must  be  done.  And  the  boat 
would  leave  in  two  hours. 

McCutcheon  braced  himself  and, 
after  clearing  his  throat,  said  to  the 
youth,  calling  him  by  name: 

"Do  you  think  it's  quite  safe  for 
you  to  try  to  get  on  that  boat  this 
afternoon?  Wouldn't  you  be  in  trou- 
ble if  you  were  caught  in  civilian 
clothes  boarding  that  boat?" 

"Oh,  I've  taken  too  many  chances 
in  my  time  to  care  for  a  little  risk  like 
that,"  answered  the  youth.  "It's  only 
a  walk  of  two  hundred  feet.  I've  been 

[27] 


THE   SCAR    THAT    TRIPLED 

sitting  at  the  window  gauging  the  dis- 
tance, all  morning;  I  know  every  step 
of  it.  I've  walked  it  a  thousand  times 
already  to-day  in  my  mind,  and  walk- 
ing it  in  your  mind  is  just  as  unpleas- 
ant as  really  doing  it." 

"But  wouldn't  you  be  shot  for  de- 
sertion in  war-time,  if  you  were 
caught?" 

"Yes,  but  any  fellow  '11  be  shot  if 
he  sticks  to  the  war  game  long  enough, 
so  what  difference  does  it  make?" 

Richard  Harding  Davis  expressed 
with  a  masterly  faithfulness  to  detail, 
spirit,  and  even  actual  words  the  con- 
versation which  took  place  in  Room 
14  that  afternoon  in  his  story,  the 
last  story  that  was  ever  to  come  from 
his  brilliant  pen,  "The  Deserter,"  and 
I  shall  not  repeat  it. 

But  there  was  one  thing  that  was 
done  that  afternoon  that  Davis  did 

[28] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

not  put  into  his  story.  When  the 
argument  was  hottest,  when  the  youth 
was  declaring,  with  his  eyes  on  the 
boat  that  would  bear  him  to  freedom, 
that  he  was  sick  of  it  all,  that  he  was 
willing  to  risk  being  shot  as  a  deserter, 
that  he  owed  nothing  to  Great  Britain ; 
when  Davis  was  declaring  that  he 
owed  something  to  himself  and  that 
even  if  he  wasn't  caught  in  that  short 
trip  of  a  hundred  steps  to  the  boat  and 
shot,  his  life  would  be  a  failure,  in  all 
events,  because  a  man  who  had  de- 
serted never  could  look  his  fellows  in 
the  face  again  and  never  could  have 
the  courage  which  brings  success  in 
any  walk  of  life — the  youth  tore  off 
his  coat  and  vest,  jerked  his  shirts 
from  under  his  trousers  belt,  and 
bared  his  stomach. 

"Look   at   that  scar!"   he  almost 
yelled.     "Look  at  that  scar  and  tell 

[29] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

me  if  that  doesn't  entitle  me  to  free- 
dom and  to  go  back  to  my  father  and 

v 

mother  at  home!  What  the  hell  do 
you  fellows  know  about  how  I  feel? 
I  got  that  scar  nine  months  ago,  sav- 
ing a  man's  life.  I  got  out  of  a  trench 
and  rolled  out  in  No  Man's  Land  like 
a  barrel  to  a  wounded  man  who  was 
begging  for  water.  I  rolled  over  and 
over  and  over,  with  bullets  flying  all 
around  me,  and  I  got  the  man,  too !  I 
brought  him  back  to  the  trench.  But 
a  bullet  went  across  my  stomach.  It 
went  right  through  a  gut,  and  when 
they  got  us  both  into  the  trench  they 
tried  to  make  me  take  a  drink  of 
water.  But  I  knew  better.  I  didn't 
take  it.  I  knew  that  a  man  who  is 
shot  through  the  gut  will  be  only  kill- 
ing himself  if  he  puts  even  a  drink  of 
water  into  his  stomach.  I  was  in  the 
hospital  for  three  months  with  this 

[30] 


THE   SCAR    THAT   TRIPLED 

wound.  I've  done  my  share,  I  tell 
you.  You  fellows  don't  understand. 
You  don't  even  know  what  I'm  talk- 
ing about.  Why,  you  can't.  Here 
you  are,  with  your  fine  beds  and  your 
decent  meals,  and  you  can  come  and 
go  as  you  please.  What  the  hell  right 
have  you  got  to  advise  me?  I'm  going 
to  take  that  boat,  I  tell  you." 

The  scar  was  as  long  as  the  opening 
in  a  football,  and  it  had  been  laced 
close  with  many  stitches  that  had  left 
their  crisscross  marks. 

:*  You're  a  fool  to  throw  away  a  scar 
like  that.  Why,  there  are  thousands 
of  British  officers  and  soldiers  who'd 
give  fortunes  to  have  a  scar  like  that!" 

One  of  the  four  of  us  said  this, 
quietly.  There  was  a  note  of  astonish- 
ment in  the  remark. 

The  rest  of  us  took  up  the  point. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  after  you've 

[31] 


THE    SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

got  a  magnificent  scar  like  that  one, 
that  you're  going  to  desert  and  get 
your  name  on  the  black  book?  Why, 
you  won't  dare  to  show  that  scar  to 
anybody!  How  can  you  ever  be 
proud  of  it,  if  you  sneak  away  now?" 
said  Davis. 

I  don't  think  Davis  really  believed 
that  the  scar  was  a  battle  wound. 
He  did  not  mention  the  scar,  as  I  have 
pointed  out,  in  his  story.  I  know  I 
had  my  doubts  about  it,  and  so  did 
Hare  and  McCutcheon.  It  might  have 
been  the  mark  of  an  ordinary  opera- 
tion for  appendicitis.  We  felt,  I  think, 
that  if  it  had  been  an  honorable  scar 
the  youth  would  have  proudly  dis- 
played it  to  us  earlier.  And,  also,  we 
felt  that  no  soldier  in  his  right  mind 
would  think  of  ruining  the  value  of  a 
wound  like  that  by  desertion.  But 
the  scar  gave  us  a  new  talking  point 

[32] 


THE   SCAR   THAT    TRIPLED 

in  our  argument  against  the  youth, 
and  we  used  it. 

And  then,  just  at  the  right  moment, 
McCutcheon  said,  "You  fellows  go  on 
to  the  moving-picture  show."  We 
were  glad  enough  to  shift  the  problem 
to  McCutcheon's  shoulders,  and  we 
departed,  somewhat  hastily,  leaving 
McCutcheon  with  the  soldier. 

The  water-front  was  filled  with  a 
thousand  activities  when  we  came  out 
from  the  little  theater  into  the  weak 
glare  of  the  early-evening  street  lights ; 
beyond,  in  the  harbor,  great  ships 
moved  slowly,  here  and  there,  and 
hundreds  of  small  barks  passed  this 
way  and  that.  But  it  was  to  the  pier, 
where  the  one  dirty  little  Greek  boat 
had  been  tied,  that  we  turned  our 
attention.  The  boat  was  gone;  far 
out  in  the  bay  we  could  see  it  heading 
into  the  sunset,  bound  for  Athens. 

[33] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

When  we  got  back  to  the  room 
Davis  opened  the  door  with  an  energy 
born  of  an  intense  curiosity  which  he 
did  not  try  to  hide. 

There  was  the  youth  with  the  scar, 
half  dressed.  My  suit  was  lying  in  a 
heap  on  the  floor  and,  in  place  of  my 
trousers,  the  soldier  was  wearing  his 
dirt-covered  khaki  breeches.  His  head 
was  just  emerging  from  the  depths  of 
his  khaki  shirt. 

"How  was  the  moving  -  picture 
show?"  asked  McCutcheon. 

"Rotten,  as  usual,"  said  Davis. 
And  while  the  youth  dressed  we  talked 
of  how  bad  a  moving-picture  show  in 
Salonica  really  could  be. 

At  last  he  was  in  his  clothes,  fully 
garbed  as  a  soldier.  The  wrinkled, 
muddy  overcoat,  the  coarse  shoes,  the 
crushed  and  dirty  khaki  cap,  the  rag- 
like  khaki  puttees,  all  the  parts  of  his 

[34] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

garb  which  he  had  thrown  away 
with  such  intense  relief  in  the  morn- 
ing, expecting  never  to  wear  again, 
had  once  more  become  a  part  of 
him. 

"It's  bad  enough  to  get  into  these 
things  again,  after  I  said  good-by  to 
them,"  volunteered  the  youth,  as  he 
settled  his  overcoat  on  to  his  shoulders 
by  shrugging  them;  "but  my  trouble 
is  only  beginning.  You  know,  I  didn't 
come  here  on  leave  of  absence  to-day. 
I  ran  away  from  camp.  That's  pretty 
bad,  you  know.  But,  on  top  of  it  all, 
I've  shaved  off  my  mustache,  and 
when  they  notice  that  back  in  camp 
I'll  go  right  to  the  guard-house.  It's 
a  military  offense." 

"Tell  them  you  got  drunk  and 
shaved  it  off  because  a  girl  wanted  you 
to,"  suggested  one  of  us. 

The  youth  did  not  answer  this  sug- 

[35] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

gestion.  Instead,  he  strode  toward 
the  door. 

"If  there's  anything  we  can  do  for 
you,  let  us  know,  won't  you?"  said 
McCutcheon. 

"Well,  there  is  one  thing  you  can 
do,"  said  the  boy. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  You  can  all  go  to.hell." 

And  out  he  went  to  take  his  med- 
icine. 

"Some  wrench!"  exclaimed  Davis. 
"It  took  some  wrench  of  the  will  for 
that  fellow  to  change  his  mind." 

Our  room,  with  its  beds  and  rugs 
and  big  easy-chairs,  looked  effemi- 
nately, disgustingly  comfortable. 

"This  is  my  story!"  exclaimed 
Davis,  suddenly.  "This  is  my  story. 
I  yelled  first.  Best  war  story  I  ever 
knew."  It  was  characteristic  of  Davis 
that  he  should  attribute  to  John  Mc- 

[36] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

Cutcheon  the  cartoonist,  Jimmy  Hare 
the  war  photographer,  and  me,  the 
war-news  writer,  the  ability  to  write 
the  same  masterpiece  that  he  had  in 
mind.  His  art  came  to  him  so  easily 
that  he  saw  no  difficulties  in  it.  If  he 
didn't  yell  first,  in  line  with  the  school- 
boy rule  that  "First  yellers  are  own- 
ers," any  one  of  us  might  take  his 
masterpiece  away  from  him.  So  we 
all  seriously  renounced  all  rights  to  the 
plot.  And  then  we  went  out  to  the 
Restaurant  Flocca  for  dinner. 

Now  I  have  finished  telling  all  that 
Davis  ever  knew  about  the  youth  with 
the  scar.  Two  weeks  later  Davis  sailed 
for  the  United  States,  and  in  due  time 
his  story,  "The  Deserter,"  was  pub- 
lished in  the  Metropolitan  Magazine. 

Some  three  weeks  later  a  sailor 
came  to  our  room  early  one  morning 
with  a  note,  which  read,  in  effect: 

[37] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

Fellows, — Can  one  of  you  come  down  to  the 
Red  Cross  lighter  at  the  pier?  They're  taking 
me  away  to  Alexandria  to  a  hospital,  and  I 
want  to  say  good-by  to  you  all. 

Yours, 


All  three  of  us  hurried  down  to  the 
pier,  for  our  curiosity  as  to  what  had 
befallen  the  youth  after  he  had 
stamped  out  of  our  room  that  night 
was  great.  On  the  floor  of  the  little 
boat,  which  was  to  carry  him  out  to 
the  great  white  hospital-ship  in  the 
bay,  lying  on  a  stretcher  among  scores 
of  other  sick  soldiers,  we  found  him 
looking  pitifully  thin  and  pale. 

"Well,  you  see  they've  got  me  in 
the  sick-bay,"  he  said,  by  way  of  greet- 
ing. "  They  say  there  is  something  the 
matter  with  my  bowels  and  they've 
got  to  cut  me  open  again.  I'm  going 
to  the  big  hospital  at  Alexandria." 

[38] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

"How  did  you  come  out  in  camp?" 
asked  Hare. 

"Oh,  they  gave  it  to  me  good.  But 
they  still  think  I  got  drunk.  They 
took  away  my  stripes  and  made  me  a 
private,  and  they  grabbed  on  to  my 
salary  for  two  months.  But  I  was 
taken  sick  the  night  that  I  got  back 
to  camp  and  I've  been  laid  up  ever 
since.  So  they  couldn't  lock  me  up 
or  give  me  any  other  punishment. 
Gee!  but  the  captain  was  surprised! 
He  said  he  had  always  counted  on  me 
as  a  teetotaler,  and  that  he  was 
grieved  and  disappointed  in  me.  And, 
just  think!  I've  never  taken  a  drink 
in  my  life." 

"I  thought  you  weren't  quite  your- 
self when  you  left  us  that  night," 
said  McCutcheon. 

"Well,  if  I  was  sick,  I  didn't 
know  it.  I  was  only  disgusted  with 

[39] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

everything.  Say,  will  you  mail  a  let- 
ter for  me?  It's  a  letter  for  my  girl 
in  New  Orleans,  and  I  don't  want  the 
military  censor  to  read  it.  It's  all 
right  for  a  strange  censor  to  read  your 
love-letters,  but  I  hate  to  have  the 
men  I  mix  up  with  every  day  read 
what  I  write  to  my  girl." 

I  took  the  letter,  and  we  said  good- 
by  a  second  time  to  the  boy  with  the 
scar.  That  night,  at  sunset,  the  big 
white  hospital-ship  put  on  way  and 
slid  from  the  harbor  into  the  JSgean 
Sea  for  its  trip  across  the  Mediterra- 
nean to  the  warmth  and  sunshine  of 
Egypt. 

Three  months  later,  in  the  Strand, 
in  London,  I  felt  an  arm  slip  around 
my  shoulders,  and  I  turned  to  see  the 
face  of  the  youth  with  the  scar.  It 
was  smiling  and  well  hued.  We  broke 
our  one-sided,  college-boy  clinch  to 

[40] 


THE   SCAR   THAT    TRIPLED 

shake  hands.  He  was  still  in  khaki, 
and  on  his  sleeve  I  saw  the  stripes  of  a 
sergeant. 

"Lunch!"  he  said.  "Lunch!  Come 
on  to  lunch  with  me  and  I'll  tell  you 
all  about  it.  I  was  broke  in  Salonica, 
but  the  governor  has  sent  me  a  wad 
of  money  and  a  letter  forgiving  me  for 
joining  the  army  and  telling  me  how 
proud  he  is  of  me.  Everything  turned 
out  all  right.  Come  on  to  lunch!" 

On  his  left  breast  the  youth  wore  a 
little  piece  of  ribbon.  I  recognized  it 
as  the  honor  given  by  the  British  for 
distinguished  service  on  the  field  of 
battle. 

"You've  got  a  story  to  tell,  young 
man,"  I  said.  "Come  up  to  my 
room  in  the  Savoy  and  tell  it.  Then 
we  can  go  to  lunch." 

"Well,  it's  short  and  sweet,"  said 
the  youth,  as  he  lighted  a  cigar  in  my 

[411 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

room  a  moment  or  two  later.  "I'm 
still  in  the  British  army,  and  I'm  a 
sergeant  once  more,  and  I've  got  the 
D.  S.  M.  And  next  week  my  regi- 
ment goes  to  France,  and  I'm  going 
with  them.  My  girl  wants  me  to 
come  home,  but  I'm  going  to  see  it 
through.  I  don't  want  to  quit  in  the 
fifth  inning." 

"What  happened  to  you  after  you 
got  to  Alexandria?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  they  found  that  my  gut  had 
grown  together  where  the  bullet  cut 
it,  and  they  had  to  open  me  twice  to 
fix  it.  They  found  I  was  in  a  pretty 
bad  way.  Do  you  know,  sometimes 
I  think  that  when  I  was  in  your  room 
that  day  I  must  have  been  sick  and 
didn't  know  it?" 

"I've  always  suspected  that,"  I  said. 

"Well,  after  I  got  better  at  Alex- 
andria they  moved  me  back  to  Eng- 

142] 


land  on  a  hospital-ship  and  put  me 
into  a  hospital  in  Manchester  to  con- 
valesce. I  convalesced,  all  right,  in  a 
hurry,  and  on  the  day  I  was  released 
they  told  me  a  certain  major  wanted 
to  see  me.  I  went  to  the  major's 
office  and  was  shown  in  with  a  lot  of 
ceremony.  I  couldn't  understand  it. 

"'Sergeant  Whitling?'  says  the  ma- 
jor." I  do  not  give  the  real  name. 
"'Beg  pardon,  sir.  Private  Whitling! 
I  was  reduced  to  the  ranks.'  'You  are 
mistaken,'  says  the  major,  'Sergeant 
Whitling.  You  have  been  restored, 
and  it  is  my  duty  to  invest  you  with 
the  medal  for  distinguished  service  on 
the  field.' 

"You  could  have  knocked  me  over. 
I  came  out  and  laid  all  my  cards  on 
the  table.  'It  can't  be  me,'  I  told 
him.  'Why,  I  wanted  to  desert  at 
Salonica,  and  they  degraded  me.' 

[43] 


THE    SCAR    THAT    TRIPLED 

'Wanting  to  desert  isn't  any 
crime,  my  boy,'  says  the  major.  '  You 
didn't  desert,  did  you?  Well,  there 
you  are.  Why,  I've  wanted  to  desert, 
myself,  at  times.  But  I  haven't  got 
anything  to  do  with  that.  It's  my 
duty  to  perform  the  ceremony  of  pre- 
senting you  with  this  honor  from  His 
Majesty,  the  King,  and,  if  it's  con- 
venient for  you,  we'll  set  the  occasion 
for  to-morrow/ 

' ( Can't  you  give  it  to  me  now,  sir?' 
I  asked.  I  could  see  what  was  coming. 

"The  major  only  laughed  at  me. 
'To-morrow  at  ten  in  the  forenoon,' 
he  said.  'It's  got  to  be  gone  through 
with,  you  know.  King's  regulations 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing.' 

"So  the  next  day  a  lot  of  soldiers 
were  drawn  up  in  a  square  on  the 
parade-grounds,  and  I  was  called  out 
and  had  to  stand  up  in  front  of  the 

[44] 


THE   SCAR    THAT   TRIPLED 

major  while  he  read  out  loud  kind  of 
an  official  story  telling  how  I  had 
rolled  out  between  the  trenches  like 
a  barrel  and  brought  in  a  wounded 
man  and  got  wounded  myself.  Same 
story  I  told  you  fellows  in  Salonica, 
you  know.  Then  he  pinned  this  rib- 
bon on  me. 

"Do  you  know  what  this  ribbon 
means?  It  means  I'm  a  King's  ser- 
geant. I  haven't  been  promoted  by 
any  ordinary  routine.  My  papers  say 
that  His  Majesty,  the  King,  appointed 
me  a  sergeant  in  His  Majesty's  army. 
And  nobody  can  remove  me  but  the 
King.  And,  if  I  get  in  any  kind  of 
trouble,  any  time,  I've  got  a  right  to 
go  to  Buckingham  Palace  and  appeal 
to  the  King  himself.  It's  an  old 
English  custom." 

The  youth  dug  into  his  hip  pocket 
and  brought  forth  a  paper. 

[45] 


THE   SCAR   THAT   TRIPLED 

"Read  this,"  he  said.  True  enough, 
I  saw  that  "His  Gracious  Majesty,  by 
These  Presents,"  declared  in  this  pa- 
per that,  in  effect,  the  youth  with  the 
scar  was  a  hero,  deserving  of  honor  at 
the  hands  of  the  King  and  of  the 
British  people. 

"Gee!  That  was  a  long  time  com- 
ing," said  the  youth.  "And  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  you  fellows  in  Salonica  I'd 
have  missed  it.  I  almost  threw  it  all 
away.  Ten  months  is  too  long  to 
have  to  wait  for  a  thing  like  this, 
don't  you  think?  One  thing  I  was 
disgusted  with  in  Salonica  was  that  no 
one  had  ever  patted  me  on  the  back 
for  getting  that  fellow.  I  thought  the 
British  were  acting  as  if  they  felt  an 
American  ought  not  to  be  honored  for 
special  stunts.  It  kind  of  got  my  goat. 
And  besides,  you  know,  I  still  think 
that  I  was  sick  and  didn't  know  it." 

[46] 


THE   SCAR    THAT    TRIPLED 

"You  were,"  I  said;  "you  were  too 
sick  to  make  any  decisions  for  your- 
self." 

"And  so  you  fellows  stepped  in, 
just  when  I  needed  help,  and  made  my 
decisions  for  me.  I  was  sick.  Just  look 
what  they  had  to  do  to  me,"  he  said. 

He  opened  the  tunic  of  his  clean, 
new  uniform  and  drew  his  shirt  out  of 
his  trousers,  just  as  he  had  done  in 
Salonica.  But  this  time  I  saw  three 
scars:  The  old  one  and  two  new  ones 
where  the  surgeons  had  cut  to  set  his 
old  wound  aright. 

"I  never  can  thank  Davis  and  you 
fellows  enough,"  he  said,  "for  steering 
me  the  right  way." 

"You  know  Davis  is  dead,  don't 
you?"  I  asked.  "Dropped  dead  with 
heart  disease." 

"No,"  groaned  the  boy.  "Then  he 
still  thinks  I'm  yellow." 

[47] 


THE    SCAR    THAT    TRIPLED 

"If  he  thinks  at  all,"  I  said,  "he 
knows  now  that  you're  all  right." 

Two  days  later  I  said  good-by  to 
the  youth  with  the  scar  for  a  third 
time.  With  hundreds  of  soldiers  he 
was  boarding  a  train  at  Charing  Cross 
Station  to  go  back  to  the  welter  of 
war. 

I  don't  know  whether  he's  still  alive 
or  not.  Perhaps  a  certain  girl  in  New 
Orleans  knows  about  that  part  of  it. 


THE   END 


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